


when it shines like gold you'll remember me

by orphan_account



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Liverpool F.C., M/M, Mutual Pining, Rating will change, Teacher AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4494957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there's a new teacher in our department and he's really cute and suddenly i forgot everything about my subject could he reteach it to me please AU</p><p> </p><p>[ON HIATUS INDEFINITELY]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sorry i couldn't resist

Sometimes, only sometimes, Emre hated his job. Don't get him wrong, he liked working with kids. He liked being an authority and he liked being respected. And he absolutely loved the lengthy holidays he was offered. But sometimes, he needed to face the truth- being a teacher was tough. All the respect came with a cost: expectations. If it weren't some whiny kid asking for his help with his geography homework (which was, by a mile, his weakest subject. Emre could barely tell the difference between North and South America yet alone read an Ordnance Survey map. But that wasn't the point. He was a Chemistry teacher, for heaven's sake) it'd be a pupil who'd handed in homework way too late and he was forced to stay behind and mark because his department decided that week would be the most suited week for exercise book monitoring. Not doing everything required of him would land him in deep trouble. Which he'd prefer to stay out of.

 

 

In the midst of staff meetings and running the after school football club, Emre nearly never found time for himself. And as soon as he thought he had a firm grip on the reigns, exam season rolled round which meant another batch of tests were to be slumped onto his desk nearly every morning.

 

He could blame this on Raheem's out of the blue transfer. He was offered a better job in a grammar school in the suburbs, which he didn't have to look twice at before jumping at the opportunity.

 

Raheem was one of the most popular teachers in the school. The kids admired his laid back attitude, which came with his youth and his charismatic approach to his subject. It was a common phrase, the whole "you can't pass chemistry without Mr Sterling," until Emre had joined the school and their battle for popularity was the new word on the tongues of their students.

Despite their indirect rivalry, the two teachers remained relatively friendly with each other, Raheem helping out with the after school club and them proceeding to go get drinks together. It was, undoubtedly, a shame to see him go, but at least Emre established himself as the best chemistry teacher their school had.

 

(Of all time? He didn't know. There were rumors of this legendary teacher who managed to maintain a 100% pass rate on every one of his classes for three whole years, before he went off to pursue his real dream: life in the limelight as a TV presenter. Someone named something along the lines of Carra?)

 

Of course, blaming Raheem would be the easy way out. It wasn't just him who was left in the department. He still shared an office with another two teachers, both of which were the mediocre ones, in the eyes of his pupils. Emre had expected them to even try step up to Raheem's ability, but they remained as they were, 'copy out the textbook' teachers. It wasn't that alone, every one of Emre's spare periods were now replaced with Raheem's classes. He pretty much had to work double shifts. And he wouldn't have done it if the school weren't to add some kind of bonus to his paycheck.

 

Apparently, the board had been searching for a teacher for a good few weeks now. They'd had a few candidates, but none of which seemed to be anywhere near Raheem's standards. In all fairness, he had set the bar pretty high. Both Emre and the board knew it would be difficult to replace him. Two more weeks passed in which Emre was overloaded with Raheem's leftover work- pestering kids for unfinished coursework and marking more progress tests. Their department would be looking at yet another budget cut if it weren't for him.

 

Last week, Emre got the news that they had, in fact, found a replacement. He was young, part Brazilian, which was also where the guy had spent the last year volunteering in a school for underprivileged kids, while taking a break from teaching. So what if he had some overseas credentials already? Emre spoke like 4 languages. He could've been a languages teacher if he wanted to. Okay, and the guy does stuff for charity. The closest Emre's gotten to helping kids was aiding them to give their grades a 180 degree spin. That didn't mean the guy was a better chemistry teacher.

 

Emre was grateful, however. Despite the fact that the guy appeared to be a worthy contender for his crown, the newcomer meant that Emre's workload would go back to his usual amounts. Which meant that he didn’t need to handle Raheem's rowdy classes anymore.

 

The second downfall was that someone, and he was unsure who, had assigned him to show this guy around. It was a stupid idea, really, as he'd have to have two sets of supply teachers take over his lessons. Being a tour guide wasn't his thing either.

 

It showed on the day. Emre was usually never late (in fact, he made it his duty to be in school early, a good half hour before the first bell sounded) but he'd just about fastened his tie and leapt into the car around twenty minutes before the bell. It meant that he was going to be at least ten minutes late for the 'tour' but he didn't really have a choice. In any case, he wasn't to blame. Maybe the headmaster would understand? He'd spent a large portion of the night preparing work for his doubled set of classes he wouldn't be attending.

 

(and then he'd fallen asleep on his desk, awoken only by his last alarm which just wouldn't shut up)

 

Thankfully, traffic didn't play much part in him being any later, as he was sure every single traffic light sympathised with him when they saw how anxious he looked in the front seat of the car. He did manage to get into school only five minutes late, greeting a couple of his pupils (also latecomers) before pounding up the stairs to the science block and through a few corridors to the chemistry office.

 

He didn’t see the guy at first. He was facing the headmaster, who peered over his shoulder when he saw Emre approaching. He wore a face of disappointment, as expected. Emre completely ignored his future co-worker and went straight to apologising.

 

"Can-"

 

"I can explain: I had a load of covers I needed to sort out-"

 

"Listen, Can, I don't want to hear it right now. This is Philippe Coutinho. We spoke about him last week. You know what we discussed. I trust I've chosen the right person?"

 

He grunted, rubbing a hand over his chin. He studied Emre's face for a second before leaning in and hissing- "I'm sure you won't, but don't mess anything up, alright?"

 

Emre grins. "When have I ever let you down?"

 

 

The headmaster exhales, turning to Philippe. "You’re in good hands."

 

He nudges past the two of them and walks down the staircase, Emre not turning to his companion until the last tap of his shoes were heard. Emre turns to his left and blinks twice before he registers.

 

 

He's cute.

 

 

 

Like,  _really cute._

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Shit._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what kind of office has a sink and what kind of teacher keeps spare clothes ?? who even knows

This cannot be happening, Emre thinks. This guy could not be any more adorable.

Fuck.

The last time he had a crush on a teacher didn't end well. His pupils found out and without the details, it all ended in tears, a missed celebratory dinner and awkward eye contact with said teacher for another two months or so.

So again, this could not be happening.

Philippe parted his lips as if to say something. He didn't, clamping them together again. Emre took it as his cue to introduce himself. He adjusts his satchel and offers a handshake. Philippe takes it, hesitant. His hand is smooth, and reminds Emre of thin white sand passing through his fingers. He had better not mess this up.

"I'm uh... Emre Can, one of the Chemistry teachers here. Though you probably know that."

"It's nice to meet you. And no, Mr Rodgers didn't mention your name. But he did say you had great character."

His accent was goddamn hot. Who the heck had an accent that silky.

"Great character, huh?"

"It could be what he looks for in a teacher."

Emre shakes his head. "He would've mentioned it before."

There's a miniscule second in which they are both silent, Emre studying Philippe's face. Warm, glassy brown eyes and lopsided lips, with crinkles at the corners of both when he smiled. Emre notices he's being a bit obvious with his staring, as Philippe looks to the side awkwardly, face red.

"Uh, I- I'm sorry, I sorta zoned out there. I'll show you into the office first..."

He pats in his pockets for the key, slipping them into the hole and unlocking the door. He holds it open for Philippe and goes in after him.

"This-" Emre gestures to the desk closest to the window, which was, fortunately, also the one closest to his- "Is your desk. And that's mine. You can put your stuff down. I mean, if you want."

_Come on, Can. This couldn't be that hard. Get a grip._

Philippe only nods slowly and complies, dropping his bag beside his empty table.

"Um, the kids are registering right now, so we have, say, 8 minutes before first period starts. I'll show you around then?"

"Yeah, sure. Hey, do you play football?"

Philippe looks down at Emre, who is flicking through a pile of sheets on his desk. It's a mess. Books are scattered over and there are precisely three empty coffee cups beside them.

Emre glances up. Philippe's referring to the photo he had pinned onto his bulletin board. It's of him and the school team, after they'd won the tournament consisting of the schools in their Borough. He looks stupid, a strand of hair hanging limply on his forehead, his mouth wide open as he was most probably shouting at one of the players to get into the picture or something.

He gives Philippe a half hearted laugh. "I, um, no. Not really. I run an after school club for the boys. Personally, I don't play much. I'm more of the coaching type."

He goes back to filing through the papers.

"And, uh, you?"

"I play in a Sunday League. It's more first come first serve kinda play, and I usually have the tendency to be late. I love random kickabouts though." Philippe adds, "Are there any other teachers here?"

"Yeah. two. But they're registering forms right now. So the office is to ourselves."

Emre straightens so they're face to face again. Well, not exactly- Emre's a good five inches or so taller than him. He was extremely attractive. And it was taking every drop of Emre's patience to not bend him over the desk and fuck his brains out. 

_Shit. Stay smooth, Em._

"Do you, uh, want a coffee or something?" Philippe looks confused for a second, then Emre adds: "We have a machine," to which he says yes to.

Emre skips across the room and turns on the machine, while Philippe sits in the swivelling chair of his new desk. He pulls out his phone and Emre watches as the light illuminates his face a little, giving it a blue glow. The coffee machine rattles on in the background.

"So, Philippe, why a Chemistry teacher?" Emre exaggerates the last syllable in his name. He tries to tell himself it isn't really for a reason, but he knows he's trying to come off as way cooler than he actually was. Philippe puts his phone back into his pocket.

"I like science, I like teaching. I was never good at Biology, Physics bores me. But for some reason, and don't ask why, Chemistry was different. Hence me being seated here."

"And what about all that charity work?"

Philippe smiled.

I hope he does that a lot, Emre thinks.

"I just wanted to contribute something to the place that partly raised me. It wasn't much, honest."

The coffee machine splutters to a halt. Emre walks back over to Philippe, cup in his hand. He doesn't see the bag. He really doesn't. He's too focused on this pretty boy's face.

But he trips over it anyway. It's a tiny stumble, but enough to let the coffee fly into Philippe's lap and spill over his crotch. He leaps up with a screech.

"Oh my God, Philippe, shit, I'm really sorry-" Emre leans across a colleague's desk and borrows a bunch of paper towels, and without really thinking, starts dabbing at the soaked area of Philippe's slacks.

"Uh, Emre, you- you don't have to..um,"

It takes Emre just another second to realise that he is (technically) feeling up Philippe's crotch. He jumps back nearly comically, turning pale.

"Fuck, okay, I'm really sorry--"

He gets back up and thrusts another batch of towels into Philippe's hands.

"Oh God, I'm such an idiot.. Rodgers said you were in good hands- fuck,"

"Hey, Emre. It's okay, come on. We all make mistakes. Besides, that's my bag- I shouldn't have put it in the way."

 

How was this guy even real?

 

"Oh no, no, that's definitely all my fault. I couldn't let you take the blame for that. I should've been more careful."

He notices Philippe's feeble attempts in trying to dry his trousers. It looks pretty wet and they needed to start moving soon. And even if it did dry, he'd be sticky all day. And reeking of coffee. 

"Those don't look like they're gonna get any more dry- I can check if I have anything you could perhaps borrow?"

"Oh could you? That'd be great. Thanks,"

What had he done to deserve this? He starts rummaging the drawers of his desk for some kind of clothing (he was sure he had jeans somewhere in there) when he finds a pair of Raheem's jeans, which were without explanation in there. He make a mental note to text him saying 1) What the fuck, and 2) I need help with your replacement as he's too cute for me to not fuck up around him.

"Uh, you can use these- they're not mine, but.."

He throws the pair towards Philippe who catches them and holds them against his waist.

"Yeah, they're decent. Thanks."

Emre breathes a silent sigh of relief because he was pretty sure Philippe would drown in any of his clothes.

"Where are the staff bathrooms?"

Emre checks the time and winces. "Next block down. For some reason they thought it would be a good idea to not have toilets in the science block. And the bell goes in forty seconds. You wanna risk it? In front of all those kids?"

"What else do you suggest?"

"You could do it here,"

Philippe's eyes widen, and Emre feels the blood rush to his ears.

"I meant, with me outside. Obviously."

"Uh, Okay."

Emre walks out of the office, closing the door behind him. When he's outside he groans. Loudly. Some kids grudgingly walking to their next lesson hear him, glare, but continue walking. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, pacing up and down the corridor.

He'd fucked up.

Philippe wouldn't forgive him now, he could see it. They'd row every morning, if they weren't having staring down contests. Philippe would bring the whole thing up everytime he'd needed something to be done. Their rivalry would be fierce.

Maybe Emre wanted that. Maybe he wanted the attention he'd get from their bickering.

You never know _what_  it could lead to.

Philippe peeps his head round the door.

"You done?"

Emre tries not to look down at his legs in the jeans.

Later, he learns that Philippe's legs look really good and he has no self control whatsoever.

"Yeah. I used the sink too, if that's okay."

"Um, that's fine."

Emre glances at his watch again.

"We're a bit late. Where'd you put the trousers?"

"A bag, I'll wash them when I get home."

"Cool. Shall we go then?"

Emre goes back into the office, grabs his bag and the keys in them. He joins Philippe outside and locks the door behind them.

"Should probably show you around the actual science block first. Oh, and your classroom,"

He leads the way through the small corridor, sounds of pupils' chatter coming from behind closed doors.

"You know what kind of classes I'll be taking?"

"They'll probably start you off with a combination. Like a high set for a lower year or the other way round. Either way you get to work with a variety of kids. That's what I did anyway."

He stops in front of an empty classroom with the lights switched off.

"This is your room, I don't have the keys so I can't let you in right now." Emre moves aside and lets Philippe look through the rectangular window.

"Though you won't be in here permanently. There's always room changes around here, so you could be teaching here first period and on the other side of the school the next." Emre adds.

"Where's your room?"

The question is unexpected and throws Emre off.

"My...room?"

"Yeah."

"It's downstairs, why?"

"Mmm, you know. Just in case." 

Philippe turns around to examine some poster work and Emre stares at the back of his head. He was already reading way too much into this.

"We uh, I was told to take you to a lesson or two. Which would you prefer?"

"Any chemistry lessons going on?"

"Two. One of which is my Year 9 class. They have a cover right now though, because I'm well, here. So it isn't really suitable. We could always go see the other though."

"Let's do that."

Emre steps down the stairs, Philippe following him, and he knocks on the door of the first classroom on his right. There's a cacophony of voices coming from inside the room, signifying the teacher didn't have the class under control- at all. When a loud shout is heard, saying "Miiisss, there's someone at the door!" everyone quietens and a woman hitting her late fifties opens it.

"Mr Can, what can I do for you?"

"For the thousandth time, it's pronounced chan, Mrs Potts. But never mind. This is Philippe Coutinho, he's joining the department later this week. I've been asked to show him around, could we drop in and see how you guys are doing?"

She eyes them both, does a silent giggling thing and winks at Emre.

_She has got to be joking._

"Um, yes. Come in."

Emre allows Philippe past and hisses into her ear. "Don't do anything. I already messed up." Emre doesn't even sound vaguely threatening. 

She smiles at him, too sweetly. It looked like she was plotting some kind of revenge.

"Wasn't planning anything, darling."

Emre rolls his eyes and goes to stand beside Philippe, watching her clap to get her class' attention then introducing them.

She pronounces both their surnames wrong.

They take two blue plastic chairs and sit at the back of the classroom, watching her mess of a lesson.

 

It was going to be a long day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i rushed this oops + the chapters will get longer

They spend the next hour grumbling and criticising Mrs Potts' approach to teaching, engaging in an unnecessary conversation with the kids at the back of the class about who would win the league (in which Emre and Philippe learnt they shared a common interest in supporting Liverpool) and then correcting her mistakes about the properties of graphite. She seems more disappointed in them than her students when the lesson is over.

Emre takes Philippe to an art lesson next, mainly because Martin wouldn't stop him from being there and Emre actually _liked_ Martin. They could pour paints down the sink and he wouldn't care less.

And Philippe was more than willing to meet Martin, as from what he'd heard from Emre. Neither of them were in the mood for actually doing what Rodgers had asked- and who else was going to find out?

Martin confused Philippe at first. The art teacher looked terrifying, a play by the rules kind of guy, with a stone cold expression. But when he saw him sling an arm around Emre's shoulders halfway through demonstrating something to do with oil pastels (He gets some on Emre's shirt, attempts to convince him that it's totally washable when it isn't- they learn while leaning forwards into the sink and scrubbing at the material with bare hands and tap water) and then offering Philippe an amiable grin, his conceptions of the teacher changed completely. Philippe had eyed him up and down and questioned his outfit choice- "Don't we have a dress code here?" when he'd fully processed Martin's sleeveless plaid shirt, various necklaces and combat boots, making him look like a rebellious teen, or an embodiment of his students' emotions.

"Yeah," Martin had responded. "Or at least I think so. But freedom of expression comes first." And he went back to drinking out his Coke bottle with a straw, showing his students whatever it was that oil pastels did.

Philippe and Emre sat at the benches at the back of the classroom while they awkwardly played with chalks and paints. Emre was awful at it, hesitantly making uneven strokes and giving up once he'd scribbled something that looked a cross between a swan and a lampshade.

(Philippe draws a woman and it takes every shred of Emre's courage to compliment him on it. Emre learns that Philippe is not only good at chemistry but art too.Was there anything he couldn't do?)

There's a fifteen minute break before another hour of lesson. The pair head back to the office, which has more of a coffee smell than it usually does hanging in the air. The other two teachers are there, and Emre lets them grill Philippe while he texts Raheem, not that he's expecting an answer until after four in the afternoon. He listens into the conversation brewing in the background instead: questions about Philippe's previous school and why his jeans don't match his blazer.

As they do, the break flies past. There's an hour of "touring", lunch, and _finally_ , Emre was granted to go home one hour early. He'd had an abhorrent start to the day, which had definitely improved. Nonetheless, something in the back of his head was telling him Philippe really hated him. He silently prays that he doesn't.

The next hour is spent trekking around the school and going into buildings and classes Emre only ever had to go into when he was covering lessons.They hang around the back of classrooms mostly. He sees a handful of his students in a history lesson, two of who are sleeping. Though it isn't really a teacher morale to accept it, telling them not to sleep would be hypocrisy. He has no idea what went on in his history lessons as a kid. Philippe sees him ignore them, and stares at Emre in shock.

"You know they're sleeping, right?"

"Mhmm."

"You're not going to do anything about it?"

"Calm down. I teach them. They're both idiots, but they're good kids, honestly. Besides, I don't think I ever stayed awake in History lessons."

"That doesn't mean you can let them sleep!"

"Come on Philippe, you're telling me you've never fallen asleep in a class?"

"Uh, like now? No,"

"I mean, when you were younger,"

Philippe looks down at his shoes, seemingly embarrassed. Shit shit _shit_  his eyelashes were really long.

"Mm, thought so."

It's then that they notice their conversation has been reverberating round the walls loud enough for the entire class to hear. There are precisely twenty seven pairs of eyes (minus the boys who are sleeping) glaring at them. Emre takes that as his cue to leave, and Philippe follows.

Then out of the blue, while walking through the technology block:

"You know, I'm still really sorry about the coffee thing. And I know we got off on the total wrong foot. Is there any way I can make it up to you?"

Philippe scratches his cheek. It leaves a slim red line which Emre wants to wipe over with his thumb.

"I told you I forgave you already. You don't need to do anything, I swear there isn't any bad blood between us. Accidents _happen._ "

"Don't believe you," Emre pokes his head around a woodwork classroom which is deserted. Philippe is again, looking at display work.

"Let me make it up to you. Mark your books for the next month. I can buy you lunch. Get you a new pair of slacks. Whatever."

"Actually," Philippe spins around, grinning. "Lunch sounds quite nice."

"Okay, good. Lunch is next anyway. Just canteen food, yeah?"

Philippe frowns. "I thought you were making it up to me?"

"What do you want me to do? Take you out?"

"Uh, yeah."

Emre can feel his face reddening as he starts to feel suffocated in his shirt.

"Um, yeah. Okay."

That wasn't part of the plan. Did Philippe just subconsciously ask him out? Was it the other way around? Shit.

Philippe senses his discomfort. "I mean, only if you c-"

"It's fine, we can, uhh, go out for lunch." He smiles.

Why was his life so hard. Philippe gives a half chuckle back. Maybe Emre was reading too much into this. Maybe Philippe only wanted free lunch. Maybe he should stop basing his life around maybes.

The bell rings and Emre wants to die.

"Do you fancy anything?"

"I-? What, no, I'm treating _you_. That's my line."

"I was just asking. And I'm craving something spicy. Do you know any good places around here?"

"Um, not sure. You?"

"I can show you if you want," Philippe offers as Emre realises he doesn't have another choice.

"Go on then," Emre begins to make his way back to their office. "I don't think I'm coming back here, by the way, so you may as well get your stuff,"

"Why not?"

"I was given the afternoon off. So I'm going straight home after lunch. Which means," Emre winces (why didn't he think this through?) "I'll have to drive us there."

"That's fine."

Okay, who was he to decide that? It wasn't fine. Far from it. Emre was panicking. This was just another chance to fuck up handed to him on a silver platter. Emre was looking forward to admiring from afar. He then remembered how that had ended up last time, and he wasn't sure which he'd rather go through with.

After retrieving Philippe's belongings they go to Emre's car in the parking at the back of the school.

"It's nothing special," Emre reassures when he catches Philippe's part awed expression.

"Don't tell me this is what your salary got you," Emre lets out an airy laugh which is more on the modest side than him agreeing with Philippe.

"It is, trust me."

"No way. Our salaries would never be enough to get BMWs."

"Well, _that_ , and some inheritance money."

Philippe gets into the passenger seat and Emre into the driver's. He starts the car and follows the directions Philippe gives him. It isn't far, a medium sized restaurant on the corner of the high street. From the bright colours and cheerful atmosphere, Emre deduces it was a Southern Asian restaurant. The aroma of spices is flung into his face when Philippe holds the door open for him to come in.

"Don't know if you like spicy food. But you can always get the meals in mild here," Philippe says while a waiter leads them to their seats and passes them menus, "Personally, I like to challenge myself. It's sad, I know, but sometimes the meals are too damn good."

Emre looks at the man sitting opposite him. He was tiny- how could he say he had spicy food for fun? Could he even stomach it? He couldn't look boring and go for something that wasn't as hot as whatever it was Philippe was ordering. Was it worth it though? Emre loathed anything that burned his tongue and throat. It made him sick and faint and wheezy. But this "date" was a gift, and there was no way he wasn't impressing.

"Yeah, I love hot food too. Only I don't go to those extents, challenging myself, I mean." And to cover up his blatant lie, "I'll have whatever you're having. I don't know too much about this cuisine."

Philippe's eyes don't stray from the menu while he nods. Emre watches as Philippe's eyebrows raise when he sees something particularly interesting, or when they fold in together when he notices something confusing. His expressions are priceless and Emre could watch him forever.

When he's done picking a meal, which feels like eternity, he runs it through Emre before calling the waiter over and making the order. (Emre agrees to whatever Philippe says, even though he hasn't really heard what he says. What he does hear is Philippe saying something about devilish shrimps and then telling the waiter to "Make it really hot," and Emre silently groans, concluding that maybe this wasn't a good idea after all.)

They try to make small talk while they wait for their food to arrive. Most of which was school matters, though Emre had gotten tired of that. He tries changing the conversation and somehow succeeds despite his nervousness to even ask a question.

"So other than teaching, what else do you like doing?"

"Good question- I did say I played football at the weekends right? Well I'm also a sucker for art museums. I never saw a possible career in arts though, so I stuck with chemistry. At school, it had always been between the two. I spent the last year in Brazil, as we spoke about before. My family are still there, so I'm pretty much always welcome. Other than that I actually do zilch. I'm about as lazy as any middle aged unemployed man crashing on his mum's sofa."

Philippe takes a sip of his water. "What about you? Any hobbies other than making a fool of yourself?"

Emre frowns. How could he bring that up. "I don't make a fool of myself. Not on a regular basis anyway."

There's a smirk playing on Philippe's lips. "You do remember this morning, right? You _did_ make a complete fool of yourself by wiping down the crotch of a guy you barely know."

"You know, I can just leave."

"I'm joking, Emre. But go on, do tell me about yourself."

Emre takes a deep breath in and thinks. "Right, so as a kid I had this dream to be a professional ice skater. It's really stupid, I know. For some reason I liked the whole winter-y elegant feel to everything. So for the first ten years of my life I began ice skating. I'd say I'm pretty good now, though I don't go as often as I used to. I run the after school football club and manage their team, so you can already understand that's a handful."

"You're joking, right? About the ice skating,"

"No, I'm dead serious."

Their food arrives. Philippe thanks the waiter and looks over at Emre, who looks like he could rip his throat out there and then.

"You okay, Emre?"

"Mhmm."

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Ha," Emre gives him a breathy, obviously fake laugh. "Everything's good. Don't worry."

Philippe starts eating, combining the rice and sauce into his plate, sometimes eating with his fingers with the flatbread. Emre prods at his food. He was scared. Why did he think he'd be impressing Philippe by getting something hot? Then, if anything, now was time to face his fears. What's the worse that could happen? Emre chokes and Philippe performs the Heimlich Manoeuvre on him?

He tries the curry-like sauce with his rice first. The first few fork fulls are okay, and he's enjoying it until he hits his sixth mouthful and he suddenly feels like his body has been set on fire. He automatically reaches for his water, in a lame attempt to wash the flavour down. All the while he's forced to look decent in front of Philippe.

He doesn't. It's obvious he's trying to keep in the fact that he can't take the heat and it's numbed his tongue. He starts to puff his shirt and breathe heavily.

Philippe looks at him sympathetically.

"You don't really like hot food, do you?"

"No shit," Emre's voice is raspy. Having finished his glass of water, he reaches for Philippe's, who doesn't seem to mind.

"You could've just said, you know. You didn't have to act all cool...in front of me."

The pause in Philippe's sentence seemed as if he'd had an epiphany in the silent seconds. He doesn't say anything else about it though. "I so wasn't."

"It definitely looked like you were."

Emre huffs and slumps back into his seat.

"Sorry about your water."

"I'll get another glass, it's okay."

Yet again, Emre had made a fool of himself. Maybe Philippe was right. He couldn't do anything but mess up. In front of him, anyway.

Emre orders something that isn't too spicy, with the help of Philippe. They eat the rest of their meals in silence, until Philippe decides to pull up a conversation about Liverpool. Emre doesn't mess that discussion up, thankfully. Towards the end of their lunch, Philippe pats in his blazer pockets, searching for his wallet.

"I'll pay for your meal."

Emre is confused. "The agreement was that I was buying you lunch, remember?"

"I'd just feel like I owe you if I don't pay for at least something."

"You can pay for the water."

A sigh. "The water was free, Emre."

"Exactly. "

"Oh, don't be so stubborn. Look, I know you're annoyed and I haven't made things any better for you, so can you please let me pay?"

"No."

"Fine. Could you drive me home then?"

"How many things do I have to do exactly before I make it up to you?"

Philippe groans. "Please? It isn't far. I promise." Shit, his eyes. Since when did he resemble an unwanted puppy.

Emre gives in at the end. He pays for the bill and leaves, glad his day was nearly over.

Philippe wasn't lying, his place was only a couple blocks down from the restaurant, which makes Emre ask him why he couldn't have just walked.

"I told you," came the response, "I'm really really lazy sometimes."

Emre rolls his eyes.

"I'll see you on Thursday. You know where the office is, right?"

"Yeah, I have a vague idea. And if I get lost I can always ask someone."

"And they're sure to help you."

Philippe looks at Emre. They share a portion of what could be classified a moment before registering they had only just met that morning.

"I'm gonna go. Thanks for the lift, Emre. And everything else."

"My pleasure."

Philippe gets out of the car but before he turns to leave he leans back in.

"You forgot your receipt."

"Who keeps their receipts?"

Philippe shrugs and hands him the strip of paper anyway.

"See you, Emre."

Once Philippe is out of sight, he rubs his hands over his face and moans. This guy was going to make his life so hard.

He stares at the receipt. He turns it over. There's writing on it.

A scribbled 'call me' followed by a number in blue ink. Then, 'phil'.

 

_No way._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lied when i said longer chapters + im moving this way too fast oops

Emre takes a nap as soon as he gets back to his flat. Deciding that sleeping it off would maybe erase his memories of the day, he undoes his tie and collapses on the sofa, falling asleep instantly.

He's having a pretty wacky dream about getting arrested by a group of ducks in Rome when he's awoken by his ringtone acting as an alarm clock and buzzing in his ear. Emre shuffles around, eyes only half open, patting himself as he searches for the source of the sound and vibrations. His phone is in his back pocket. Realising it's Raheem who's calling him, he rolls his eyes and swipes the answer button.

The first thing he hears on the other side of the crackling line is:

"Why won't you answer your texts? You know, you can't be all like, yeah, I'm totally crushing on the new guy at work, I need your help, and then blatantly ignore me!"

"I was asleep, Raheem-"

"So, after giving it thorough thought, I came down to two possibilities: either you were dead or you guys were having a nice little shag on my old desk. Now I know you're not dead, that's not cool, Em. Not at all."

Emre winces and sits up.

"Listen, Raheem, I didn't- we didn't do that. I had half the day off so we- I went back home and slept."

The noise in the background sounds an awful lot like a high street.

"Wait, are you driving?"

"Mhmmm. I'm coming over. And I'm going to bring pizza so you've got to let me in."

"Why? And what's the point? You live an hour from here. Why can't we just have a phone conversation, as we are now?"

Raheem explodes, roaring with laughter.

" _Because_ , Emre. This is what you don't understand. This is a big thing. And if we just let it slide like we did before- well, you know what happened. We don't want a repeat of that now, do we?"

There is no response.

"See? Glad you understand that you're in need of my help. I'm like, twenty minutes away from your place right now. I'll see you then."

And he hangs up. Twenty minutes gave Emre just about enough time to shower and get into a new change of clothes. The ones he was currently in still bore the shame he'd experienced today.

 

Emre is drying his hair when the doorbell rings. He's forced to make the choice of whether to answer the door with floppy, minus his typical gel hair or make Raheem wait until he fixed it before complaining to him when he was done about how yelling at the neighbours wouldn't change how fast Emre would open the door. He decides not to go for the latter of the choices, sprinting down the stairs just as he heard the buzz of the bell for the second time.

When he opens the door he's greeted by Raheem's futile attempt to balance the pizzas in one hand and a bag of something in the other. Raheem had _four_  pizzas. It _was_  just him coming over, right?

"Why d'you have so many pizzas?"

"More importantly, what's up with your hair?"

"I was in the shower."

Emre takes two pizza boxes off him and lets him in, Raheem wobbling over to the kitchen counter and dropping the bag and remaining boxes there.

He's in his work attire: suit and tie, telling Emre that he "Had come straight from work because this is a crisis," and "You don't mind margherita, do you? I'm going veggie this year."

Emre doesn't care, to be frank. He doesn't necessarily need Raheem to get _this_  involved either. Pizza was a nice thought, and the fact that he'd offered to help, but this he was taking this way too seriously.

"Okay," Raheem starts, carrying the first box into the living room. "Tell me everything. Like, every little detail. From what he wore to how many times you guys shared awkward eye contact. Go on,"

Emre follows him.

"Firstly, why were your jeans in my stuff?"

"Were they? Hmm, you sure they're mine?"

"Definitely."

Raheem flops down into the sofa, then looks at Emre with his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Suddenly, something clicks and his face brightens.

"Oh yeah. It was parents evening and I was wearing them. Obviously I had to get changed into something more, uh, suitable, so I changed in the office when no one else was there. Don't know how the jeans ended up in your stuff though."

Emre sits beside him, opening the box and reaching for the first slice.

"Now you'd better tell me everything."

He throws Raheem a dirty look but starts anyway. He tells him about how late he was and how he'd managed to wipe down the crotch of a guy he'd just met. He goes on to say that Philippe was also a Liverpool fan (to which Raheem does his own mini celebration) and then to mention how he thought it'd be a good idea to order spicy food when he couldn't stomach it. Emre skips out the bit on Philippe giving him his number. His recount is accompanied by scoffs and fits of giggles on Raheem's half.

After a good fifteen minutes of explaining, Raheem speaks up:

"Okay, listen, Emre. I know you love to embarrass yourself at every opportunity you get, but this, _this_ , is gold. You're out of this world. Extraordinary."

Emre clears his throat. "You're not helping, Raheem. This guy is my colleague from Thursday onwards. How am I _not_  going to mess up again?"

"Honestly? I don't have any advice for you. Whatever you're doing seems great. I mean. I do have one thing. Please stop embarrassing yourself. I don't care if you can't help it."

Then, after a second of thought, Raheem exclaims, "Hey. I think he likes you too."

The German chokes on the Coke that was only halfway down his throat. He starts coughing uncontrollably. Pizza crumbs fall in a shower on to his lap while Raheem pats his back tentatively.

"What makes you say that?" He questions, after his fit has died down.

"I don't know, it's my instinct. And also, he kinda forced you to go on a half-not-date with him. And the way you describe it, he sounds really interested. But it's you, Emre. Either you're completely oblivious or he isn't sending any signals at all and you're making this whole thing up."

Emre bites into the last slice of pizza. It is greasy and the buttery texture of the cheese cause his lips to gloss over when he pulls away. Raheem gets up to get the second box.

"Trust me, this isn't a lie," Emre calls through the corridor.

"I believe you, you know." His words are dripping with sarcasm as he takes his place on the sofa again.

"He gave me his number."

In a spilt second, Raheem's expression goes from chilled to stunned. His eyes are open wide, his mouth hanging in a perfect o.

"He did _what?!_ "

"He gave me his number." Emre repeats.

Raheem drops his pizza onto the sofa and grabs a hold of Emre's shoulders, violently shaking.

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

"What? Why?"

"He likes you, Em. I mean, from all this, it's quite obvious. I really think he likes you. Come on, do I have to spell it out for you?"

Slowly, Emre shakes his head. There is no way Philippe could like him. It hadn't even been a full day. And for two thirds of that day he'd been the most embarrassing companion anyone could have.

"I'm not going to call him."

"Why not?"

"I'm going to see him on Thursday. Why would I need to talk to him before that?"

Raheem shrugs, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Emre reads his mind.

"No, Raheem."

"At least give me his number. I can tell him how great you are, you know."

"I'd prefer it if you didn't."

Raheem whines.

"You’re really annoying, you know."

"Whatever. How's everything been since I left?"

"Shit." Emre takes another slice of pizza. "I've had to cover practically all your lessons, and your year eight class are literal devils. I mean, your year tens are heavenly compared to them. And that's high praise coming from me."

"Pretty sure they could've found someone faster."

"They like torturing me, obviously." Raheem looks at his watch.

"So, back on the topic of Philippe,"

He receives a mean squint.

"I'm not giving you his number."

"You don't have to. Just tell me about him. What's he like?"

"There isn't much to say. I literally met this guy today." And after some thought, "He's Brazilian, but he doesn't seem it. He looks like he's from a different place altogether. Somewhere exotic, but can still feel like home. He has really long eyelashes and his smiles are way cute."

Emre looks down and grins at the carpet, lost in thought. "He's shorter than me, but not a terrible height. Like he isn't shorter than you. His accent is to die for. And he plays football on Sundays. I think."

Raheem is very feebly trying to hide _his_ smile.

"You have got it bad, Em," He says in a sing-song voice, to which Emre punches his arm and hisses, "Shut up."

"So, he starts on Thursday, right? Try to keep everything in your pants until then. Even though from what I see, that isn't going to work."

"Look, I just need a way to, uh. You know, express my...feelings?" Raheem lets out a short chuckle.

"Okay, okay. How about this. Chemistry related pick up lines."

"You're kidding."

"I am not. Listen to this: I've got my _ion_  you. See. That's great. Who wouldn't use that?"

Emre nearly dies from second hand embarrassment. Which is refreshing, after what he'd been through today.

"Where did you learn that?"

"One of my students, why?"

"Oh my God, Raheem."

 

 

Wednesday comes and goes. Emre says goodbye to Philippe's new classes who repetitively ask about their new teacher, halfway through taking notes about ammonium nitrate. It's exhausting and oddly satisfying, talking about Philippe like he didn't even know who he was.

 

Thursday pulls in and Emre is not looking forward to seeing Philippe at the office first thing in the morning. So he feels a wave of relief when he comes in before Philippe, sitting down at his desk and beginning to mark an ever-growing pile of reports. He'd have a shortened evening anyway, as he ran the football club on Thursdays.

Philippe strolls in shortly after, already holding a cup of coffee.

Huh.

Well that's interesting, Emre thinks. He barely acknowledges the newcomer, continuing to tick and underline the report that was currently in front of him, by one of his year ten students, Daniel. Daniel who sat at the back and cracked the worst jokes, and had to be frequently separated from his counterparts, Adam and Jordan. His report, somehow, was quite good.

Philippe is noisily drinking his coffee. Every slurp he makes gets on Emre's nerves. He doesn't want to tell him to shut up. He doesn't want to talk to him at all. But Emre can't shut his fucking mouth.

"Good morning," He greets. "I see you know where this office is,"

"Morning to you too. I actually didn't know where this office was, I had to get a pupil to show me."

"Seems like my tour was useless then."

"Not exactly. At least I knew this was the science block. My room is across the corridor and yours is downstairs. I think I've got this,"

There is half a second of silence.

"I was told to give this to you," Emre slides a sheet of paper over to Philippe. "It's your timetable."

Emre could've sworn their hands brushed. He was feeling butterflies again.

Philippe examines the sheet, and Emre tries not to watch him. He's wearing a bright green tie. It was blinding.

"A year seven class first period. Seems easy enough,"

"Ooh. Depends. You have two, right? 7R's pretty decent. Watch out for 7Y though. Some of them are out of their minds."

"Anyone in particular?" Philippe fishes out a notebook from his bag.

"Hmm, let's see. Tia, she can never shut up. Might want to isolate her for a bit. And the kid with the glasses and red hair who sits next to her. Make sure you separate them if it's the last thing you do."

Philippe scrawls something down. "Thanks." When he shuts the notebook, Emre notices that it has the periodic table printed on the front.

What a nerd, he thinks, and finishes marking Daniel's report.

The only noises in the room are the whirring of the air con and Emre scribbling. Philippe is mute. Emre doesn't want to look at what he's doing. His tie was already distracting enough as it was.

"You know where the canteen is, right?"

"Pretty hard to miss, it's quite a big hall."

They make eye contact and for some reason, Emre gets the impression Philippe is angry with him. The next eighteen and a half minutes are spent in aching, yearning silence.

As are the next few days.

 

 

 

Tuesday morning makes it a week since they had met. Philippe was settling in slowly, only just learning his way around and interacting with other teachers. He's learnt names, timetables, offices. It would be a blatant lie to say Emre didn't play a part in helping him.

Everytime they shared eye contact, everytime Philippe did as little as ask where the loos were, or if he could borrow a pen, Emre felt an everpresent tug of guilt in his stomach. He wasn't _supposed_  to feel it. It wasn't wrong to be afraid of asking someone out. He did feel a little cowardly, though, especially after he had spoke to Raheem about it.

("Come on, you giant nut. There's no way he's gonna say no to you. You're smart, funny, good looking - but not as good as me. Obviously - and that's just the tip of the iceberg. You guys obviously have so much chemistry. You see what I did there? Huh? Emre, you still there?")

Tuesday morning is when Philippe says, out of the blue:

"You didn't call me."

The second Emre hears it he wants to throw himself out the window. And bury himself where he falls. Firstly, he breaks out into a nervous sweat and then starts fiddling with his fingers. Who was even that straightforward? Who in their right mind had the audacity to confront someone about not calling them? He can't even call Philippe desperate, because that's all he'd been the last few days. Desperate. To see him again, to talk to him again. Only whenever Emre picked up the phone, he chickened out and threw it across the sofa like it was some kind of bug. And this was only nearly half a week they were talking about.

Other than that, it meant that maybe Philippe _was_  interested. Perhaps this wasn't all a joke. Maybe Raheem was right. Maybe Philippe did reciprocate his emotions.

Wow, he was lucky.

When he notices Philippe's looking at him as if he's expecting a response, Emre struggles to form a sentence. His mouth is dry and he can't breathe. Fortunately for him, Philippe realises Emre's difficulty replying to his spontaneous approach.

"I'm sorry. I sounded really impatient there. Take your time. I'm not forcing you to do anything."

Oh fuck off, Emre wants to say. Come over here and kiss me then fuck off. He was speechless. Even his thoughts were scrambled and it was making him nauseous.

"I, uh. I have to go."

Emre picks up his reports and bag, leaving without taking a second glance at Philippe. He darts down the stairs and battles with the lock and key to his classroom before switching the lights on, seating himself at the front of the class and releasing an exasperated sigh.

What just happened?

Emre was not ready. Everything was moving way too fast. And this, Philippe's barefaced, indirect confession paired with his deadpan expressions wasn't making his little crush any better.

Didn't he _want_ it to happen, though? Didn't he want him and Philippe to be an item? And now, when he had a tiny glimmer of hope, he was going to let this go to waste?

Emre hears a knock at the door, followed by a timid, "Can I come in?"

Emre doesn't reply, but Philippe comes in anyway. The door is wide open, so he can't blame him. He pulls a lab stool up to the front desk, the sound of the legs scraping across the floor making Emre want to grit his teeth

"I should apologise. That was rather stupid of me."

Emre buries his head in his hands, rubs over his face then looks pensively at him. Philippe looked genuinely apologetic. He is nibbling on his bottom lip, wedged between his teeth, one hand over the other, as if he was restricting himself from reaching out and touching Emre.

All Philippe gets is silence, so he continues talking.

"I think I may as well tell you now though. This last week, it's been a rollercoaster. I didn't think it would be. I've had different jobs before, this isn't anything new. But I mean-"

He pauses to let out a short breathy laugh. He looks down at the floor. He's nervous, Emre can see that, but he's handling it well. Too well.

"It's you, Emre. Wow, this is really hard to say."

Emre's lips part slightly.

"I really, really like you. I know it's still _extremely_  early days, but I'd prefer if I told you now. At first I was just taken aback at how goddamn handsome you are. Then you went on to act like a complete dork and I was nearly head over heels. I didn't mean to upset you."

I'm dreaming, Emre thinks. Pinch me right now because this cannot be happening. There is no way in hell that Raheem was right. There is no way that this angel sent from the blessed gods of chemistry fancied him back.

His eyes are still stapled to Philippe's face. His words are aphonic, lips moving but no sound escaping. He is scared, so flipping scared, his stomach doing somersaults over and over but he no longer feels nauseous.

Emre's eyes venture over to Philippe's mouth. Lips are still softly sandwiched between teeth. Emre wants to kiss him. Right there, right then. He swallows the gulp that's been forming in his throat. He may as well.

"Can I kiss you?" His voice wavers off towards the end, though he was quiet in the first place. Philippe chuckles, shuffling himself and his stool closer to Emre. He takes Emre's hand and rubs his thumb over the top. His palms are damp with sweat, trembling with anticipation.

"Yeah. Relax."

And Philippe leans to kiss him. Emre notices he too is shaking, especially when he moves his hand from his lap to Emre's jaw, running his fingertips over the stubble there. His lips are cold and he tastes a cross between gum and candyfloss. Shyly, Emre also places a hand onto Philippe's cheek, as he tenderly guides him through the kiss. It's slow and summery, like cloudless skies and effete waves. When he pulls away, their lips ghost over each other for seconds and Emre can feel his breath on his cheeks as Philippe presses his forehead against his. His eyes remain closed until Philippe strokes a finger over his lashes.

"You okay?"

Emre nods, keeping eye contact.

"Yeah. Wow. I just, I don't know what to say."

"You could take me ice skating."

Emre's mouth stretches into a grin. This was turning out to be a surprisingly decent morning.

"I'd like that."

"Call me, then." The bell rings as Philippe places another kiss on his cheek and leaves the room, dashing up the stairs and back to his office.

 

Emre's still in a lovestruck daze when the pupils of his first class start filing in, his heart like the aftermath of cymbals being hit.


	5. Chapter 5

Emre's third lesson of the day is his year ten class. They're rowdy, especially for a class that are missing their loudest three pupils, who saunter in fifteen minutes into the lesson, taking their time as if they'd walked in too early.

"You're late, guys."

Emre doesn't look away from the chemical equation he's writing on the board.

"See me after the lesson."

The trio grumble, making their way to the back of the classroom, their usual seats.

"And pass me the ball, Adam."

Adam does so, kicking the football through a myriad of lab stools and legs with precision as it hits the bin at the front of the class over. Daniel and Jordan celebrate behind him, a series of ohhh's filling the already noisy classroom.

"Save it for after school, Adam. I've marked your reports, they're at the front. Come and get them. And clean up this mess,"

Emre gestures to the bin Adam had knocked over continuing to talk about the dangers of carbon monoxide. The boys take out their supplies for the lesson, flinging their bags onto the side benches and stroll to the front to receive their reports. Adam and Jordan high five when they see the bright red C plus on the top of their sheets, while Daniel stares in shock at his.

"Sir, I don't think you meant to give me an A, right?"

"Yes, I did, your report was remarkably decent. Now sit down. You're disturbing my lesson."

Adam and Jordan exchange glances when they hear Daniel's grade, Adam blatantly ignoring the mess he'd been asked to clean up.

"There's no way you got an A!" They shuffle to the back of the class again, snatching the paper out of Daniel's hands and looking over the red letter at the top of the margin.

"Bullshit," Jordan hisses. "My report was just as good as yours."

Adam looks disgusted too.

"I've never seen you do any of that work in this class. I don't think you deserve that."

"You idiot- this was homework, obviously I wouldn't have done it in class."

"Ohh, I wouldn't be surprised if you did."

Daniel rolls his eyes.

"I bet you don't even know how to pronounce this."

Adam points to the title of the report.

"What, equilibrium?"

"We're losing him, Ads. He's joining the dark side."

"What dark side?" Adam looks to Jordan, confusion evident in his expression.

"You know, the smart kids,"

"Oh. Right."

"I never put you down as _clever,_  man. But this," He jabs a finger on the grade for emphasis, "This is awesome."

Daniel raises an eyebrow.

"Thanks."

Emre coughs and the boys swivel their heads towards the front. "Silence, boys. And Jordan, you _know_ where you sit."

"But sir-"

"Don't want to hear it."

Jordan mumbles to himself, picking his stuff up and moving to the front. He kicks the table for the rest of the hour.

The trio try to leave when Emre dismisses the class, only to be pulled back physically by the straps of their bags.

"You missed fifteen minutes of my lesson, so you're missing fifteen minutes of lunch. Sit down and get your books out."

Emre restarts the PowerPoint projected onto the board.

"Get these notes down." Surprisingly, they do as they are told, but not without a complaint from each of them.

"Sir," Adam pipes up. "You didn't give me back my ball."

"And you were planning on leaving without it?" Adam purses his lips and returns to taking the notes down.

"You can have your ball back after-" A knock is heard at the door, and Emre peeks his head around to see who it is: Philippe.

He feels like his heart suddenly wants to break out of his ribcage and his hands are all sweaty again. It was close to the sensation he had while eating that spicy shrimp, but this was a different kind of ache. He opens the door cautiously. 

"Do you have any spare test tube racks? I checked pretty much every drawer in the lab and there aren't any."

Emre wants to tell him that he can find some in the supply room, that the keys were his desk in the office, and that they were kept in the third cupboard on the left. Instead, he allows Philippe in and points him to where he keeps _his_  test tube racks, disregarding the fact that he'd need some during his next lesson anyway.

"There's some in there."

And Philippe just _has_  to bend over, rather than squat or even sit- Hell, Emre wouldn't have cared if he lay down on the floor. He really didn't have to lean over, and now Emre can't keep his eyes off of Philippe's ass.

And _fuck_ , he never noticed how great of a behind Philippe had. Legs, sure. Raheem's jeans made them look flawless. But it was unfair. He didn't have to be perfect in every part of the human anatomy. Emre swallows heavily. There were ridiculously explicit things he'd like to do to that ass. Despite his ogling only lasting seconds, his mind was fully adrift of the three students who were still in the classroom, who had noticed how indiscreet he was being. Jordan's snickering is like a slap in the face. He looks away just in time, as Philippe straightens up, test tube racks in his arms.

"Thanks," Philippe murmurs, as Emre holds the door open for him, as he staggers towards it. On his way out he _winks_. He fucking _winks._

And it is way too reckless to go unnoticed by the three boys. They resume their sniggering as Emre's face heats up, and the door closes behind him.

 _No, no, no, Philippe_. Not in front of the kids. Well, more precisely, _these_ particular kids. Did he not see them? What was Philippe thinking? Maybe he wasn't thinking at all. 

Emre clears his throat, trying to keep composure, as he retakes his seat at the front of the class. Three pairs of eyes are on him and he feels shaky under their stare. There is no longer the sound of pen across paper- the room is utterly silent. For a couple of seconds, at the least.

"So, Mr Can, who was that?" Daniel breaks the ice with an awfully exaggerated sing song voice.

"Uh, who? Phi- Mr Coutinho? He's, um, the new Chemistry teacher. You haven't seen him around recently?"

"Oh no, we have. We're just wondering how much of him _you've_  seen."

The three boys erupt into a frenzy of manic laughter, clapping Daniel on the back like he'd just told the greatest joke of their generation. Emre clamps his jaw shut, exhaling loudly through his nose.

_Calm down, Emre. They're just winding you up._

"I don't understand, Daniel. Would you care to explain? And I'll dock another five minutes of your lunch for every stupid assumption you make."

"No offence, Sir, but that was really obvious. You should probably tone it down a little."Jordan waggles his eyebrows before receiving a glare from Emre.

"I still don't know what you guys are getting at."

"Come _on_ , Sir."

"We saw you staring. And we saw him wink at you. We're not idiots. There's something going on." He tries to stifle a scoff when Adam claims that he isn't an idiot, but it comes out as a choke.

Emre wasn't sure he could keep up the act. They were onto him. He should probably pick the easy way out.

"You know what, guys? You can just go. Take these worksheets as homework- I want them in next Tuesday."

The three boys share a look, confused and irritated, but pack up their things nevertheless. They linger in the lab for a few minutes more than necessary, as if they were still waiting for an answer from Emre.

"You know, Mr Can, we could do what we did when we found out about you and Mr Marković."

There was no way he was being serious. Why was Adam bringing this up now? Emre pales at the memory. He can barely walk past the History teacher without readjusting his tie or looking downwards in an attempt to hide his quickly reddening face. What exactly did Adam want?

As if he had read Emre's mind, he says coolly, "I just want the ball, sir. Then I swear. It'll stay between us three."

"Four," Jordan corrects to which he receives a kick in the shin.

Emre sighs, relieved. He gets the ball out from under his desk and passes it to Daniel, who does a couple of keep ups before hooking the ball under his arm.

"Thanks, Sir."

They leave, but Emre doesn't hear the door to the building shut. He hears Philippe's voice and the boys talking to him. He isn't risking going out there. He's been embarrassed enough these past weeks.

One minute and forty seven seconds later the chatter dies down and the building door slams shut, leaving an echo in its wake. Emre releases the breath he's been holding. He starts packing his work up.

Philippe strolls into the lab as Emre is switching the lights off.

"Hey," Philippe squints. "Hey, do you teach those kids?"

Emre nods. "I don't want to be rude, but they are nosy."

"Agreed. You got lunch?"

"Yeah."

After locking his room, he follows Philippe up the stairs and into the office.

"Do you have that after school club thing today?"

"That I do. Why?"

"I was wondering if I could tag along or something. You know, just to see how you run everything."

He was joking, right? Nobody volunteers to help after school clubs. Raheem was an exception. A once in a million exception. Yet, Emre's mouth is moving without his brain's permission.

"Yeah, sure. Why not? It'll be fun, probably." Philippe chuckles, pushing the door to the office open.

Emre shuts it behind him. It is, again, only the pair of them in the office, as Emre had explained before that Ms Reynolds and Ms Potts preferred eating in the canteen. It was a surprise when Philippe joined him in the office at lunches, instead of eating with them, since Emre quite liked the serenity of being alone for at least an hour. Not that he didn't mind Philippe joining him.

"I'll look forward to it. "But, uh, you're not gonna wear _that_ , are you?" Emre looks towards his shirt and tie, then polished brogues.

"I can borrow some trainers, right? And it's not like I'm actually going to play or anything. I'm just watching."

He opens the styrofoam box and prods at the lasagne with a plastic fork.

"I hate canteen food."

"If you can even classify that as food."

Philippe shrugs. "So I'll meet you here after school, yeah?"

 

 

Emre drags himself to his last lesson, which is a cover for one of Martin's classes. The art block is on the other side of the school and he is already exhausted by the time he locks up his lab room and tells a couple of girls off for running through the hallways and nearly knocking them over.

He has no idea what he's doing, handing out sets of pencils and specific types of card. He really wished Philippe were here, he'd know what gsm meant and the difference between 2H and 2B. After a short lived struggle, he asks one of the more enthusiastic students do it, while he marks the last batch of progress tests that his year eight class were begging for the results of.

The class is, to his luck, a well behaved one. The hour is spent with the faint sound of pencil on paper, gentle strokes and the occasional sharpening, or tables rattling against each other as someone erased a line. They're ready to leave the second the bell rings, and Emre makes his way back to the office to meet Philippe. He gets there early, so he peeks into Philippe's classroom to check for him. He hasn't dismissed his class yet, but he does notice Emre looking.

"Take a sheet from the front and you can leave. I don't want any more missed homeworks from now on,"

Emre hears him say, and he realises he hasn't actually heard Philippe teach before. He chuckles to himself, moving out of the way to let the pupils out.

"They will eventually warm up to you, I swear." Emre encourages when Philippe locks his room up.

"Well they're hard to win over. Six of them had no homework. Seriously?"

"You'll get used to it. And remember, detention doesn't usually work, unless it's a last resort."

Philippe gives Emre a look.

"What?"

"Those kids before lunch. They weren't in detention?"

Oh, so he had seen them. 

"I've known them for a while. They only get what they deserve- besides, two of them were the kids asleep in that history lesson the first time you were here."

They walk out of the building, and towards the sports field.

"I kinda guessed."

"Yeah," Emre glances down at his shoes. "Did they, uh, say anything?"

"About what?"

"When you guys were on the stairs, having a grand chat. What were you talking about?"

Philippe raises an eyebrow and looks at Emre quizzically. His expression melts into a smirk.

"Yeah, they did. They told me you were staring at my ass."

Emre slaps his forehead and groans. He was going to kill all three of them this session. Conjuring up a punishment wouldn't be hard. 20 laps around the field? Fifty pushups? Only none of that would be enough to pay for this.

"You shouldn't listen to them."

"I didn't, don't worry."

Thank God, Emre thinks. The boys are kicking a tennis ball around the field when they arrive. They're all already changed into tracksuits, some in bibs. Emre calls two of them over, opens the shed which held the football equipment and gets out a set of cones and a bag of footballs.

"What shoe size are you?"

"Nine, but I could probably fit eight."

Emre throws a pair of blue running shoes in Philippe's direction, from a green box in the back of the shed.

"I'm gonna go get changed," He says, tossing Philippe a ball.

"You can introduce yourself or something."

"You're joking."

Emre shakes his head. "Unfortunately not. They're gonna wanna know who you are. And they may look intimidating, but honestly, they just want to do something other than kick that ball around. Make them stretch or something."

"What?"

Philippe spins around to ask Emre, but he's already vanished into the changing rooms. He pulls the trainers on, slipping his brogues behind the shed and out of sight. He looked like a complete idiot, in the shoes and work clothes, but he addresses the boys anyway. They seem to file in when he starts talking, despite how quiet.

"Hey guys, some of you know me already-"

Adam and Jordan nudge each other and raise their eyebrows, sneering. Philippe ignores them.

"For those of you who don't know. I'm Mr Coutinho. I'll probably be helping Mr Can from now on. He thinks this is a one time thing- but I've really missed having football in my life, so I might be here for the next few weeks."

All twenty boys stare back at him mindlessly for a second, then blowing up into an eruption of questions. Philippe understands precisely zero of them but fortunately, Emre is already jogging towards him.

"Get to the usual, boys. 5 laps around this pitch, break off into four groups and stretch- you know the drill."Emre calls, and they obediently do so.

Philippe smirks down at his shirt. It's an old Liverpool kit; one that Philippe recognises it's from a good five years back.

"Can you even wear that?"

"What, are you gonna tell me off for it?"

"No," Philippe shakes his head, laughing. "I mean, all of them aren't Liverpool fans, are they?"

"The three boys we know are. We have a few who support Chelsea, United. Think there's one spurs fan."

"Must be hard for him, then. With their recent run..." He grimaces.

"Yeah, I guess." They continue their conversation until the boys finish running, and then join in with their stretching.

"Okay, listen up. The cup starts soon, so I'm going to need to pick a team- I've planned for us to have scrimmage game. Adam, Jordan, you're the captains, pick your teams."

There is a celebratory sound among them when they hear the agenda. Adam and Jordam start choosing, whittling down the group until it was just Emre and Philippe.

"Yeah, we're playing too, you know." Philippe throws him a look. He couldn't possibly be serious. There was no way he was playing in jeans and a dress shirt.

"You're joking, right?" He hisses when Adam picks him and he makes his way to the small huddle they'd made.

"Nope. We have enough for a proper match, so why not?"

Philippe sends him a fake glare, narrowing his eyes and looking away. He bends down to fit into the huddle.

"Okay then, let's get this over and done with. I'll be in goal. Just make sure you guys don't mess up at the back."

Adam shakes his head, irritated.

"Nuh-uh. Mr Coutinho, I didn't choose the greatest goalie in the school to play him outfield. There is no way Simon isn't going to be in goal. Okay?"

He claps a timid looking blond boy on the back.

"Uh, yeah sure. Sorry about that, Simon." Philippe gives him an apologetic nod.

"You guys take your positions then, I'll play anywhere- as long as it isn't defence."

"Picky," Adam snorts.

"Excuse me?"

"Heh, nothing."

And he goes on to assign the others their positions before telling Philippe he's playing on the wing.

Oh great. That meant running.

Before he finds the time to ask Adam if he can play anywhere else but there, Emre is running through the rules and tossing a coin, they've kicked off and Philippe is stuck with playing on the right wing.

The first ten minutes of the game consists of plenty of passing. Jordan's team is good at keeping the ball, and they have faster attacks than Adam's team- Philippe hears him put it down to the fact that they have Daniel and his team doesn't.

The first effort is from Adam himself though. After Simon had conceded a corner and Jordan's delivery was cleared by a defender, Adam collects the ball from just after the half way line and dribbles past Emre, the last player at the back. He shoots into the top right corner.

"Impressive," Jordan lightly shoves Adam's shoulder when they take their positions for kick off again. Adam pushes him back.

Philippe hadn't felt very _involved_. He'd made a couple of passes, through balls. Altogether though, he felt a little useless, despite his team being one nil up.

He tries to ignore what he's wearing. He couldn't blame this on his clothes. Surely, he could play in this. They really shouldn't be a barrier against what he really could do. Unfortunately, he was sweating profusely and his thighs were starting to hurt from the tightness of his jeans. He'd picked the wrong day to try and help. Next week, he thinks. There's no way I'm not bringing a kit.

The game remains one nil for the next half hour. There are very mediocre chances between dirty tackles and bad corners.

Just before half time, Adam passes Philippe the ball, and he whizzes past the right back. He hears Adam yelling to cross it, but he nutmegs the player instead. He isn't through on goal yet, it's a tight angle, but he shoots.

Two nil.

The boys, including Emre, are all stunned, staring at him as if he was Christiano Ronaldo and had just accidentally walked in on them playing.

"You didn't say you were _this_ good, Sir. I'm glad I picked you now."

"Thanks, Adam. But this isn't my show to run."

Emre calls half time, and then calls Philippe over while the boys have a water break.

"You're joking, right?"

"About what?" He sloshes the water around in the bottle Emre had handed him before taking a large gulp.

"They're _kids_ , Philippe. I didn't know you could do that... Okay, what was that? It was awesome, honestly. Wow. But how-"

"I did tell you I played before, right?"

"Yeah, but that looked pro."

Emre narrows his eyes, seemingly in thought.

"That's right, you're Brazilian, aren't you? Must be something to do with genes and stuff. Or maybe you're just really talented."

Philippe breaks out into a grin. "Thank you, but I don't know what I'd put it down to. Definitely not genetics. Both my parents have two left feet."

Emre chuckles back at him and he could've sworn they'd shared another _moment_. Philippe's eyes are fiery and look just like they were after they'd kissed. Animated and electric.

It was quite romantic up until the point Jordan decided to ruin it by kicking a ball at Emre. Luckily, he misses his head by a millimetre, practically grazing his ear, and it crashes against the metal fence.

"Come on Sir, second half, remember?"

"Uh, yeah. Let's go."

 

The second half is pretty much a repeat of the first, a lot of passing and a few long range efforts. Jordan gets very close to scoring, hitting the woodwork twice, and his last threat is gifted with a goal. A couple of others impress also, a bubbly pair by the names of Lucas and Alberto, a quiet yet ruthless defender called Mamadou (who all the others shortened to Mama bear) as well as Daniel, who gets the last goal of the game.

It ends four goals to three, Adam's team clinching the win in the end. The session ends with Emre opting to tell the group who made the team next week, as they all lazily make their way to the changing rooms.

Philippe and Emre stay behind to collect the equipment. There is a splattering of rain that starts to wet the two of them.

"So, about that date..." Philippe starts, but Emre interrupts. He swings the bag of balls over his shoulder.

"I'll call you, I promise."

"And do you keep your promises?"

"Well, I promised myself I wouldn't fall for you, and look at me now."

Emre doesn't make eye contact as he unlocks the shed door and Philippe starts removing his shoes.

"That's a lie, isn't it?"

The rain gradually gets heavier, audibly hitting the tarmac. Philippe manages to get back into his brogues before the rainwater soaks through his socks.

"Hmm?"

Philippe's hair is now flattened to his forehead. He licks over his lips, his shirt clinging to his skin. Emre was looking at him again, in that _way_ ; the way you'd look at pink and purple sunsets, the way you'd look at a newborn.

"That was a lie, right? You didn't promise yourself you wouldn't-"

This time, Emre kisses him. It's clichéd, behind the shed, in the rain, grasping hair and licking cold lips. The kiss is a fill for a void, a satisfaction for hunger. They cling onto each other like flames on wood, fingers dancing on salt wet skin.

"I promise." Emre murmurs against Philippe's mouth.

Emre dismisses any worry he ever had about Philippe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't really have an excuse for writing another kiss, huh.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ????? i have no idea what im writing anymore, also i seem to love writing at 3am.......why.......

Philippe blinks the raindrops off his lashes when Emre pulls away and breathes into the grey air.

"You're not going to walk home, are you?"

He chuckles. "No, I was planning on biking home."

"I can't let you do that," Emre stutters, shaking the rain from his hair, flicking droplets everywhere and locking up the shed.

"Come back to mine until the rain dies down."

Emre isn't thinking. At all. His mind is in three different places at once. It isn't until Philippe is back in the passenger seat of his car worrying about getting the chair wet over the sound of a repetitive high pitched pop song and the trickling of raindrops on the windows, that he looks into eyes the colour of lattés and the shelves of old libraries and realises that he's fallen _hard_. And everything he does from this moment on is going to be so spontaneous he won't keep up with his own decisions. He wouldn't care though.

 

"It'll dry," Emre assures for the fiftieth time and wishes that Philippe would stop wriggling around.

"It's not that. It's just... uncomfortable."

"We'll be there in like five. I swear."

The song fills the car when Philippe settles down, the squeaking noise of wet cloth against leather diminishing and being replaced by a catchy beat. Sighing, Emre reaches over to change the station, but is stopped by Philippe's hand clinching onto his wrist.

"I like this song," He whines, looking at Emre innocently. Emre retracts his hand as Philippe starts humming. A couple of seconds into the song and Emre recognises it as a Maroon 5 one that he'd forgotten the name of. His expression immediately switches into a soft smile when Philippe starts singing, not totally off-key but not perfect either. Even though his singing isn't great, his voice is smoother than caramel and Emre watches him in the corner of his eye, mumbling some of the words himself.

_What am I doing? No, Emre, you don't sing. You can't sing._

Philippe breaks out into song when they come to a halt at a red light, Emre quietly joining him. The words to the song come to him like he has them memorised, only he can't put his finger on the name of it. By the time the chorus kicks in, they're both chanting, the speakers vibrating the air around them.

And by the time they reach Emre's flat, they're both roaring with laughter, Philippe flicking droplets out of Emre's soaked, and consequently floppy hair. He allows Philippe in first, wiping his shoes on the mat outside.

"You can take a seat in the kitchen," He says, placing his bag onto the stairs and showing him into the dining area.

"Why do you have such a big place? It's just you here, right?"

"This isn't _big_. And yes. It is just me."

"Bigger than what I'm used to, so that's surprising."

"Right," Emre starts, "I'm assuming you'd want to shower or something. You know, so you don't get sick. The rain doesn't look like it's clearing up any time now."

He turns on the heating. Since when did he even care about Philippe's wellbeing?

"I would, thanks. I hate being a bother, but I'm kind of hungry. Do you think we could get some takeaway?"

"Yeah, that sounds good."

Emre takes a seat beside him, looking Philippe straight in the eye despite them both being dripping wet and creating small pools of water in random places on the vinyl of the kitchen.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

" _This_."

Emre doesn't know why he's doing it. He feels as if he's known Philippe all his life and this was _right_. It felt _right_  to come home with Philippe and order pizza and watch a gross romcom while snuggled together on the sofa as it rained cats and dogs outside. And he didn't feel awkward anymore. He didn't see why he ever did. It had been a week and he knows, he just knows, that Philippe could be the _one_. Emre had thought it was pure luck that Philippe had felt the same way, but he now replaces luck with fate. This was fate. And when did fate ever scare Emre?

"You're so right, it is hard to say these things. I have no idea how you managed it this morning."

Philippe swallows and looks hard at Emre.

"Go on," He breathes. "Tell me."

Nervously, Emre chuckles. "That isn't easy."

"I know. But I'll listen. I promise."

Emre takes in a huge breath. He has to get his word right. "I wish we could be like this forever. I don't know why, or how, I feel so strongly connected to you. It's terrifying, I won't lie. I've been scared the minute I met you. It was like the world stopped and it was just the pair of us. From that moment on, I knew I was captivated by something I thought I'd never get."

He pauses, and Philippe clasps his hand. His fingers are freezing. Emre can't look at him in the eye. He focuses on the floor instead, something that wouldn't judge how sappy he was.

"I know we've only known each other for a week, but it feels like I've known you for lifetimes. Lifetimes that I've missed out on, lifetimes I've forgotten. I-"

Looking up anxiously, he notices tears welling up in Philippe's eyes. They're reddening as he grasps onto Emre's hand harder. He looks on the verge of the tears actually spilling over, but instead, forces a smile.

_Whoops. This is it. Philippe hates my guts._

"This is going to sound so crazy, Emre, and forgive me in advance, but you couldn't have put it any other way. I didn't think you'd be so good at putting it into words,"

Emre releases a sigh of relief.

"I'm surprised too. I thought that'd be much harder. Maybe because it's you. And, uh," He stands up, and chooses to change the subject. "I'll show you the shower room then, and I'll order something in the meantime,"

"Okay. Thank you." Emre leads him up the stairs and into the bathroom, opening the creaky closet door then retrieving a clean towel. Flinging it into Philippe's hands, he makes his way into his own room, opening the last drawer in the chest beside his bed. Nothing in there would come even remotely close to fitting Philippe, but there was no way he was going to want to get back into that shirt, drenched with sweat and rainwater. Knowing Philippe, he _would_  offer, though. In the end, he finds an old blue t-shirt he hasn't worn in ages, and the tightest jeans he owned (courtesy of Raheem taking him out shopping this one time) yet, he is sure Philippe still won't be able to fit in them. Emre presses them into his arms.

"They'll probably be way too big for you, but I don't have anything else- sorry,"

"It's cool, honest. And if it's really that bad, I can always wear this." He grips his shirt with a fist, balancing the articles on his other arm.

So I was right, Emre thinks.

"You wouldn't. Chuck those in the laundry basket when you're done. I'll put them in the wash later. You'll find soaps and shower gel in that cabinet, the hairdryer is here-"

"Alright. I- Thank you," Philippe steps into the bathroom again, not meeting Emre's eyes. He gently shuts the door behind him and Emre listens to the spray of the shower when he turns it on straight away.

Turning around and racing down the stairs, he enters the kitchen and picks up his phone, flicking through his contacts.

Raheem picks up after the third beep.

"What now, Emre?" His voice bears a hint of exasperation.

"Listen, Raheem, because I need to make this fast. Philippe is over."

"Over where? Are you okay? You sound really worried." Emre groans, tapping his foot impatiently on the slippery floor.

"He's in my shower. It was raining, and I wasn't thinking and I invited him over and said we could get takeaway and everything. We had this heart to heart and he likes me and everything, we kissed- twice. I have no idea how to be a good host. I need some-"

"Wait, wait wait. Hold up. You're panicking way too much. Talk me through _everything_."

"I don't have enough time to talk you through everything!"

There is hesitation on the other side of the line, and then Raheem exclaims, as if he'd just heard it,

"Did you just say you two kissed?"

"Yeah."

"Twice?"

"Yes."

"Mind telling me what happened this past week?"

"All of this happened today- if you aren't gonna be any help, I'm going. But don't say anything when I'm screaming at your door at 3 in the morning begging you to tell me how to-"

"Okay! Okay. Fine. This is what you do. Wait for him to get out of the shower, then ask him what he wants to have. If he says he doesn't mind, go with Chinese because you can never go wrong with Chicken Chow Mein. Oh wait! It's Thursday! I'm assuming you're going to want to shower too, so..." Raheem's voice trails off.

"So what?"

"You need to keep him busy while you do that. I can't really think of anything, but judging on how wonderfully kind you've made him out to be, I'm pretty sure he'll be okay with just chilling out on your couch. Put on a movie just before the takeaway is supposed to arrive so you have an excuse for him to stay longer, if you want him to, of course. And it's a chance to snuggle up with him on the couch. Besides, I also need to go, but remember, try not to fuck up?"

"Uh. Thanks. For all that. And Raheem, couch? Seriously?"

"My new girlfriend's American."

"Pretty sure she's Danish."

"That's Tanya. History."

"Raheem, you werelike, attached at the hip last week."

"And I got rid of her. As you say, too clingy."  

"Uh, Okay. Thank you, anyway,even though I don't know how much of that I can manage-"

Emre hears a click, and Raheem has hung up. He recaps everything Raheem had said, realising he doesn't remember any places that had good Chinese food where he lives.

Instead, he slams in his postcode into a takeaway site and sets the filters to highest rated before selecting the first option. Dialing the number, he presses his phone to his ear as he searches for the mop in the closet.

It starts ringing, and a man picks up almost immediately. A vague order is made. Enough for two but nothing too filling, since the time was touching eight o'clock and heavy meals didn't sound appetising, despite Emre feeling his stomach rumble in hunger a couple of times. Raheem had said that you couldn't go wrong with Chow Mein, and he was really craving some right then.

Three minutes pass while Emre busies himself with clearing up the kitchen, fiddling with dirty plates and rearranging the four chairs he had around the table. He does the same with the living room, plumping cushions and giving the fireplace a quick dust down. The only thing he doesn't do is rearrange his bookshelf alphabetically, which he did consider for a second. All the while he listens to the sound of water dripping off the walls upstairs.

After another fifteen minutes he's getting worried that Philippe has slipped and hit his head so hard he's fallen unconscious. Though, to his luck, in the middle of adjusting an ugly painting that Martin got him for his twenty third birthday, he finally hears the spray of water stop, and the hairdryer start.

At least he isn't dead, Emre notices.

There are five minutes and twenty eight seconds until he hears the bathroom door unlock and Emre releases the breath he's been holding for the whole time.

The stairs creak when Philippe comes down them, and much to Emre's surprise, the clothes fit quite well. Baggy, but well.

The Brazilian gives Emre a subtle, wary smile, cheeks red and skin visibly damp. He leans in to the doorway of the living room, watching Emre, who can only think that this was _awfully_  domestic. And that he wouldn't mind seeing this every day for the rest of his life.

Emre takes a few cautious steps towards him, gaze not leaving his.

"I ordered Chinese," Emre decides that he isn't stunned enough yet to be speechless. Or that he'd quickly learnt he had no reason to be, speechless, that is, if he were with Philippe. "If that's okay with you."

"Yeah, that's cool." His eyes are so so so warm, Emre wants to melt in them. They look like chocolate. He doesn't want to breathe anymore, if it meant he could die like this, rosy cheeks and caramel skin caressing his eyes.

"I need to shower too, if you don't mind."

The rain still hasn't stopped. Normal for British February.

"Go ahead, I'll wait here. Watch some TV or something."

Again, so very utterly  _domestic._

Their shoulders brush when Emre leaves, and the scent of blueberries and cocoa butter hit him in the face when he edges past. That was his favourite shower gel. Philippe better not have used it all up.

He quietly pads up the stairs as the blare of the TV fades away, reaching into his room for a fresh change of clothes and a towel, locking himself up in the bathroom. It has been left so clean it looks nearly unused. He hooks the towel onto the back of the door.

Emre turns the knob of the shower on, slipping his hand underneath the drizzle of lukewarm water, then peeling his top and shorts off, followed by his socks. Absent mindedly running a hand through his hair, which is greasy now it is half dry, he tosses the clothes into the basket and steps into the shower. The splattering of water hitting his back makes his muscles loosen as he succumbs to the balmy, clouded steam that had formed in the bathroom.

 

 

He quickly loses track of time, completely forgets Philippe is downstairs in the living room, silently cursing when he gets shampoo in his eyes. When he finally deems himself done, gently, he twists the knob and the water trickles to a stop. He only half dries his hair, leaving it without gel, as Philippe had already seen him with floppy hair. And he  _hadn't_ judged.

Emre pulls on a shirt and a pair of chinos, once he'd dried himself down. After giving himself a once over in the mirror he decides he is looking too formal for a night in. Once he is out of the shower, he swaps the chinos for jogging bottoms.

Dressed, he returns back down the stairs to see Philippe watching a reality TV show. The channel is swiftly switched when Emre walks in.

"I didn't take too long, did I?"

"Nope," Philippe turns around to meet his sight. "Thirty minutes tops."

Emre doesn't even bother checking the time. He nods towards the screen.

"What're you watching?"

"Nothing. Just flicking through channels. There isn't much on, anyway."

This was his chance. Raheem had suggested a movie just before the takeaway is supposed to arrive, and this was only nearly perfectly planned. He just needed to ask, politely-

"Do you want to watch a movie?" He blurts out, adding a regretful chuckle at the end. He just had to mess this one up too.

"Could we play instead?"

"What, sorry?" Emre raises a brow in confusion, to which Philippe points to the console next to the TV stand using the remote.

"Oh."

Emre hadn't used the thing in ages. It had been unmoved from the stand for months, maybe a year. During that time it had collected a lot of dust and been barely noticeable when he watched TV. It was fair to say it had made a home on the stand. He has no idea how Philippe recognised what it was.

A little part of him whispers to stick to the plan while the other tells him to play. Raheem would just have to miss out on this one.

"I haven't touched that in a while. But hey, why not?"

"Great. You have fifa, right?"

"Obviously."

What were the controls again? How did you turn this thing on? Where were his controllers, more importantly?

He leans in front of the slim, black box-like console and locates the on button. It's a skinny translucent thing in the centre of the box. Emre cautiously presses it. Maybe he could revive this toy.

Philippe does something with the remote in the meantime, and the screen momentarily flashes, changing into a cerulean background which Emre recognises as the Playstation home screen. From that, he also deducts that his Fifa disc is also still in the black box thing, and he only needed to worry about his stupid controllers now.

Awkwardly, he peers behind the TV, where there is a mess of wires and, to his luck, two controllers. He pleads to himself that they're charged, leaning in behind to snatch them. As soon as he has hold of both, the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," Philippe murmurs.

Emre turns the controllers on while Philippe is at the door.

"Wait, I'm going to pay,"

He grabs his wallet out of his bag on the stairs and presses a twenty pound note into the delivery guy's hand, muttering "keep the change," then almost shoving the door in his face.

"What was that about?" Philippe questions when they sit back onto the sofa, Emre passing him a box of noodles.

"Nothing, really. Just worried you might want to pay, to be honest. Like, after what happened at that restaurant."

"I see. Well it wouldn't hurt to let someone else pay every once in a while, right? Oh. By the way, dibs on Liverpool."

"Oh come on, that isn't fair. I wanted Liverpool. I'm not going to want to beat you then, am I?"

"Not my fault. We can play international if you'd like."

The game loads up. Emre selects multiplayer, and it is only a race to choosing. Philippe assigns his team as Liverpool before Emre gets the chance to, leaving him with Manchester City.

Philippe opens his carton box of noodles, searching inside the bag for chopsticks. It smells like soya sauce and crisp vegetables. Emre does the same, turning back to the hunger brewing in his stomach.

They select their line ups while eating, making dry jokes about the other's choice of players and formation.

Emre leaves the screen on pre-kickoff, allowing them both to finish before playing.

"I haven't played in ages, just so you know. Normally, I'm really good at this."

"Something tells me you're firstly, trying to put me off, and secondly, that you have no clue how to actually play the game."

"Okay then, Philippe," He starts, jabbing a stray noodle with a chopstick. "Let's see what you're made of."

He finishes eating while Philippe is still halfway through his food, pressing x and starting the game.

"Hey! That isn't fair!"

Emre is kicking off despite his feeble plea, so Philippe is forced to choose between letting his food get cold or losing to Emre. He finds himself one nil down in a couple of seconds, thanks to a flukey finish by the City striker.

"That doesn't count," He says, kicking off this time. "It's still nil nil, technically."

 

He ends up winning eleven goals to three. There is plenty of screaming about penalty decisions and how if it weren't snowing it would be so much easier to see the ball. It got to a point where Philippe took pity on Emre and scored two own goals. The only good to come out of this was Liverpool's win.

"You weren't joking when you said you were terrible, then."

"I never said that. I said I hadn't played in-"

"I _know_ what you said. I'm just winding you up."

He places a hand on Emre's arm. It's cold.

"Are you cold?" _What a question._

"Ha. A bit, yeah."

"I'll go turn up the radiators-"

"You don't have to."

He moves a whole lot closer to Emre, leaning in so much he can feel breath on his skin.

_What the fuck. What the actual fuck. What is he doing. I am not ready for a third kiss. Stop this domesticity._

"Would you like a jumper?"

Philippe grins.

"No, it's okay."

He wraps his fingers around Emre's wrist, his hand drops the controller. Emre is unsure whether he is shaking or not.

"Can we cuddle?"

 

Emre is on the verge of screaming.

 

"Yeah."

 

Only he cannot, as he has clearly lost control over his own mouth.

Philippe's pressing his head to his chest and nestling into the curve of his hip, curling his legs up. Emre isn't very sure _what_  to do. He softly lays his arm around Philippe, subconsciously pulling him closer.

It looks and feels extremely awkward.

Slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, Emre leans in to kiss Philippe's hair. He feels so much smaller than he actually is, burrowed into the space between his legs and his armpit, head heavy on his chest. Emre notices his fingertips are very pink and his hair is very soft. They remain in the same position for a couple of minutes.

"This is nice," Philippe whispers into Emre's shirt.

"It is."

"Thank you for everything today."

"It was nothing, honestly."

"We should make a plan for our ice skating date," Philippe proclaims, sitting up and facing Emre this time, legs crossed.

"You'd want it to be as soon as possible, wouldn't you?"

"Surprisingly, you know me well already. This weekend?"

"Sounds good." Emre huffs, eyes on Philippe.

"I'll call you, definitely."

"Thanks." He scooches closer. "I really enjoyed today. It was a lot, but I feel like it was a _normal_  thing to do it with you."

"I know, I feel the exact same."

Outside, the rain stops as if in sync. Philippe gets up, stretching.

"That's my cue. I think I'll be off." He points at the window.

"You didn't bring a bag with you?" Emre stands up behind him.

"I usually leave all my stuff in school if I don't need it at home. Could I borrow a jacket or something?"

"Yeah, though I don't think any would fit-"

"I don't really mind."

"Wait a second."

He rushes upstairs, looks for the tiniest coat he owns and back down, throwing it into Philippe's hands.

"I can drop you off, if you want."

"You've already done enough, Emre."

"Why would I let you walk?"

Philippe gives him a wary smile, as he pulls on the jacket and Emre slips into one hanging on the hooks outside the door. He grabs his keys from his bag before turning the lights out in the living room and hallway, following Philippe out of the house.

He drives Philippe home, talking about the school football team and then Brazil. It's much quieter, but more comfortable. Philippe thanks him again before leaving, leaning down and kissing Emre on the forehead through the window, pulled down halfway.

"I would've kissed you properly," Philippe says, clicking his nails on the glass separating them. Emre immediately slams his finger on the window button until there is no more glass between them, and Philippe pecks Emre's lips. His skin is even more golden under the streetlight.

 

It has to be a coincidence that the same Maroon 5 song is on when he starts the car again. This time, he does remember the name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) what's that button that controls the windows called? does it even have a name
> 
> 2) i do not like maroon 5 ignore the fact that they are there


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait. also i have no idea what this chapter is, it's just a lot of talking and is v uneventful-

Raheem calls at half eleven, begging for details. His voice is high-pitched and there are loud noises in the background. Emre wants to hang up straight away (he does have a class to teach in less than nine hours) but there is a persistent fussing on the other side of the line and he can't help but feel that he _owes_ Raheem. And that it would be so much quicker to dismiss him right now than have him on his back for the next few weeks.

"I'll text you," Emre chooses. "I can't be bothered to talk right now."

He hangs up faster than intended, without listening to whatever excuse Raheem was conjuring up. Precisely two seconds later, his phone buzzes repetitively with the sound of his ringtone as a stream of texts file in.

 **[Mr Know It All]** : tell meee

 **[Mr Know It All]** : u have to it wont be fair if u dont

 **[Mr Know It All]** : where are u dont leave me hanging

 **[Mr Know It All]** : emre!!!!

Emre knew Raheem could type fast. And that he loved being the first to find out any type of gossip. He was like that before he left too, teasing the newest class couple or throwing remarks at any pair of kids who made eyes at each other. But _this_ was over the top. Emre sniggers to himself. Raheem reminds him of a teenage girl desperate for the newest rumour. Typical.

 **[You]** : what do u want to know

 **[Mr Know It All]** : tell me what happened is he still there

 _Was he still there?_ What was Raheem thinking?

 **[You]** : no

 **[You]** : i ordered chinese like u told me to and we played fifa

 **[Mr Know It All]** : fifa????? i thought that ws our thing

 **[You]** : since when

 **[Mr Know It All]** : since forever. we r bros ur violating the bro code

Emre rolls his eyes too far back into his head.

 **[Mr Know It All]** : and is that it?

 **[You]** : yh

 **[Mr Know It All]** : ur so boring  
**[Mr Know It All]** : u guys should've cuddled or smth. srs i thought this was a date

 

The thought that Raheem spying on them crosses his mind, but his common sense eradicates the idea. It was very possible though, he did imagine Raheem to have some kind of stalker tendency. Linking back to his teenage girl persona.

After the text, he had to come off as unfazed or Raheem and his meddling would never come to an end.

 **[You]** : im going to bed

 **[Mr Know It All]** : omg u guys cuddled didnt u

 **[Mr Know It All]** : i knew it

 **[Mr Know It All]** : dont go away ik what u guys hv been doing

 **[Mr Know It All]** : pick up rn

Emre has barely enough time to read any of the messages before his ringtone starts up again. He picks up, sighing into the mouthpiece.

"Oh my God. I need to meet this guy! Are you guys like a thing now?"

"No."

"What!? Why not?"

"We didn't do anything? Seriously. This isn't any of your business."

"Of _course_ it's my business. You're like one of my best friends."

"Unfortunately."

"Whatever. You need to learn to appreciate the things I do for you. Remember when I helped you out with all that stuff to do with Lazar? Aren't you happy no one talks about that anymore?"

What is with everyone bringing _that_ up? What happened with Mr Marković was a totally different story. Philippe was different.

"Don't you have work to do?"

"Yeah, but this is important-"

"I'm tired, Raheem. Can't we talk about this some other time?"

Raheem huffs. He sounded close, very close, to giving in.

"Fine. Goodnight."

Emre can't help but wince at the menace in Raheem's voice.

"Night."

He casts his phone on his table, letting Raheem hang up. It doesn't take him any less than half an hour to fall asleep.

 

 

(Though during those thirty munites, he can't help but recall the day he met Philippe and his drawing in the back of Martin's classroom and their little half-date. And above all, he can't believe this: confessions and cuddles, kisses and awkward eye contact, had all happened within the space of a week. It _had to_  be some kind of sick joke. And if Philippe had the courage to play it on him, he wasn't going to pay for the consequences.)

 

His alarm wakes him up seven hours later, and the Friday which follows it is mediocre. It is the first time in weeks, however, in which he doesn't have to cover another teacher's lesson. All five of his lessons are accompanied by students rubbing their hands together and complaining about the cold, then begging to watch a movie instead of filling in worksheets. Emre finds himself looking at the clock once too many times in each of his lessons, internally praying for the next few hours to race by and and then for the weekend to settle in.

He stops himself from thinking about Philippe everytime the Brazilian crosses his mind. It is a chore, as he is constantly reminded (by himself, as surprising as it is) that he is only upstairs and that he could leave whatever class he was teaching and go see him right then. And he wanted to. He was rapidly developing a yearning for the need to see and be with Philippe and it was getting in the way of his teaching. Though he couldn't help but realise that there was something very vital missing from _everything_. Halfway through planning how exactly he was going to take Philippe out skating without knowing if Philippe had ever skated before or not, definitely not thinking about brushing icy fingertips and a clumsy but cute and tiny Philippe clutching onto his arm as he attempts to regain balance, an interruption is made from the front of the class.

 

"Sir, what's the date?"

 

What. Could this kid read minds? Was he psychic? How did he know about Emre's date?

 He snaps out of his reverie, faces Jordan, who is seated right ahead of him on the other side of his desk.

"What date?" Emre blurts out.

Jordan looks confused, nose wrinkled. He stops kicking the desk. "The date...today?"

"Who's going on a date today?"

The blond is now completely lost.

"Nobody...Are you okay, Sir?"

And suddenly, Emre's common sense is injected back into him.

_Shit._

"Oh yeah, I'm good. Really good. What did you think was wrong? Ha." Shortly followed by a more serious, "It's the nineteenth, right?"

"Thanks," Jordan mutters, uncertain.

Emre only loses focus two more times in the remaining forty-five minutes of the lesson. The first time, he gets the equation he's explained how to balance wrong and he doesn't notice his mistake until his students are exchanging confused expressions and whispers and subsequently, answering all the questions wrong. Later, he fully zones out, staring out the window with his chin in his palm. Jordan has to wave a heavy hand in front of his gaze to get his attention. He asks what the atomic mass of hydrogen is, and then whether or not he's made the school team.

 

The lesson finishes relatively quickly, Emre spending most of it daydreaming. He returns straight home- no detentions or marking to finish. Half way through his drive, he wonders exactly why Philippe had chosen him. Out of all the people in the world. And why so fast? Philippe had known basically nothing about him when he'd confessed, basing his feelings on that one half-week alone. And then the number. For all he knew it might not even be Philippe's.

They'd rushed everything so much that he'd started to doubt himself, concluding that all this could be a possible joke. Sure, Emre had had boyfriends in the past. The one common factor amongst them, however, was missing from his and Philippe's affiliation: tiresome spinning around in circles and arguments which spiralled out of control much too fast. Everything so far had been unrealistically perfect.

But Philippe was too kind a soul to pull a prank this malicious. Or was that cute golden boy figure just an act? Emre frees himself of the thought when a car horn is sounded from behind him, to which he glances up and sees the traffic light is no longer red.

 

Once he's back home, he immediately puts the kettle on and trudges upstairs to get out of his work clothes. While stuffing a leg into his jogging bottoms, he fishes in his wallet for that receipt from the previous week. It's still a crumpled mess, but Emre manages to make out each number and press them into his phone. He goes back into the kitchen while he hears the ringing tone repeat once, twice, and then a crackling sound before a cough.

"Hello?"

"Is this Philippe?"

Too straightforward? Then again, what were the chances it actually was Philippe.

"Emre?"

"Yeah, it's me."

It's a relief, almost, to hear his voice. It is so filtered through the headset, yet still manages to sound like candyfloss tastes. Emre puts him on speaker while he pours the water into his 'world's best chemistry teacher' mug (which really should be at school. But it was too precious to be wasted in that kind of environment) and adds a teabag.

"Look at you, Mr Emre Can, keeping to your promises. I have your stuff from yesterday at my place. Washed and everything. I can give them to you on Monday."

"Okay." Emre stirs two and a half sugars into the mug.

"God, I really should stop borrowing things from you. And getting drenched."

The German silently chuckles.

"Both times were my fault. Sorry."

"I don't think you can control the weather, Emre."

"You never know." He reaches into the fridge for the milk, pouring it into the mocha coloured liquid and watching it turn from dark to light in an infinite mix of swirls.

"Besides, I um. I called to ask you, when do you fancy going skating?"

Silence. Or something that sounded like a squeal. Emre chooses to believe that he'd remained silent and Philippe was still all calm about this, and that he hadn't squealed like a toddler who'd only just got handed an ice cream. Because that wasn't cool. Not one bit.

Philippe clears his throat.

"I don't know. When are you free?"

"When am I free? This weekend probably isn't the best for me. Short notice and all. Next weekend though, my schedule is empty. Unofficially, of course. Not sure what might pop up."

"Next Sunday sounds good."

"Okay. Do you want me to pick you up or-"

That was a stupid suggestion, Emre thinks. He gingerly takes a sip of his tea, burning his tongue a little. He makes his way to the living room, taking Philippe off speakerphone.

"If you don't mind. I'm still trying to get to grips with this area."

"Yet you knew where that restaurant was?"

"Priorities, Emre. I can't starve to death."

A pause.

"What time is good for you?"

Emre slips back into the kitchen to search for some cookies to accompany his drink. His pantry is near empty save for an open bag of toffee popcorn which probably had all its contents softened to a sticky pulp. He makes a mental note to go grocery shopping at some point.

"I'd say we leave after lunch. So, around half one?"

"Sure, okay." Emre brings the mug up to his lips again. "You've never skated before, have you?"

"No, I haven't."

"This'll be fun then."

Philippe chuckles warmly. "How was your day?"

"Here and there. Tiring, I mean. As Fridays are. You?"

"Trying to keep everyone in order, still. I've never taught children who were this..." His voice trails off, in search for a word.

"Rowdy? Disrespectful? Hopeless? Apathetic?" Emre suggests.

"I was going to say peculiar, actually. But those fit the glove too."

"Peculiar?"

"Yeah. There's some of them who are actually pretty  _good_ at chemistry. If they'd turn their heads, stop talking about last night's X Factor results and listen to what I say, maybe if they actually put in a little effort, they'd have even a slim chance of passing the class."

Philippe was coming to him for advice? Reconsidering his entire teaching method, he dubiously says something to fill the swallowing silence.

"It's a lot like that at first. You can win them over at the start with lots of practical work. Be severe, but not as much as shouting every three seconds. It takes a while to gain their trust."

"I know how to teach, Emre."

"Not British kids, you don't." He retorts. Not the best idea.

"You're right, I haven't taught British kids before."

Emre sighs and pulls his knees up to his chest, breathing in the steam still twirling out of his mug. It surprises him how his drink hasn't yet matched the temperature of the room.

He needs to bring it up before their conversation comes to a halt. And he needs to be almost casual about it. Emre promises himself, that he will not get emotional. It was just a question.

"Hey, Philippe, I've been meaning to ask you something."

"Hm?" He sounds withdrawn.

"Don't you think we're taking this a bit too... lightly? We only just met last week. All that stuff we said yesterday- it was just in the chaos of things, right?"

There are small hushes on the other side of the line as though someone was moving, and eventually silence.

"Is that really how you feel?"

"I don't know. I haven't developed anything this fast for anyone."

Philippe doesn't respond. Emre clears the gulp forming in the depths of his throat in a hope to break the silence.

"What I'm trying to say is that I don't know if everything I'd said yesterday is entirely true. But hey, I don't mind finding out."

His cheeks flush and he isn't sure whether it is because of the warmth of his tea or how quiet he'd become, his voice recognisably gentler. There are more hushes.

"Let me teach you," Philippe murmurs. His voice is so intense Emre feels the hair at the back of his neck prickle upwards. "I owe you at least that."

And Emre loses it. There is a rush of blood to his head, images zipping in and out of his mind, when really all he wanted to know was why, and how, he'd ever come across anyone like this. Everything clouds over with a mist of distrust but surety. A different kind of lust, a yearning for the truth before any physical touch, be it Philippe's or not. His tongue stings, a burning sensation of pins and needles, his eyes black out behind their sockets. A quiet crackle and a half-choke shakes him back to life.

"You-

"I want to be with you. I _know_ we only just met and you probably don't trust me at all. But I want to learn. About you. Your favourite colours and what you like to have for breakfast and whether or not you sleep with your socks on. I know you like me too. That's why I made the first move. And everything you're saying, it's fine."

He audibly swallows.

"Philippe, I-

"If you feel we're rushing things, I'm glad you told me. That's how relationships work, right? Communication. So, we'll take it slower from now on. No hasty kisses, nothing embarrassing like-"

"Are you angry?" Emre questions cautiously, able to form a sentence again.

"Angry? No, no. I'm happy you're bringing this up. Does it sound I'm angry?"

He isn't sure whether Philippe is being sarcastic at this point. Voice near monotonous, he is unable to deduce exactly what Philippe is putting across.

"No, you don't. I was just worried in case you were."

"I'm not. I promise- I was saying, I don't mind you taking your time. It's only," He laughs, almost embarrassed. "I like rushing things, I don't know. I like skipping all the anxiety and the nail biting and stumbling around in the dark looking for answers. I hate it. I just feel it gets in the way of potential."

Potential? Was he being serious?

"I don't know if I can do that-"

"I wasn't saying you should. I'm all for slowing down this thing." Emre can't see him, but he is so sure Philippe is smiling, lips up in a thin rose curve. He has a huge urge to go visit him right there and then, just to snapshot the image.

"Okay."

"Good."

"And thank you."

"It's okay. I'll see you on Monday." There it was again, the smile in his voice.

"Yeah."

"Have a good evening." And he hangs up.


End file.
